


The Cold in my Bones

by amagdala8



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Developing Friendships, F/M, Family Drama, Ferngill is a pretty broken place, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Injury, Loneliness, POV First Person, Post-War, Sickness, Slow Burn, but like it's cool, farm life, letting go, the doctor is confident here idc what Lewis says, the topic of Racism will be touched a bit, there's no way around it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27206086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amagdala8/pseuds/amagdala8
Summary: After her estranged grandfather falls sick, Edeline is forced to quit her job at the bakery to move to the other end of Ferngill, a war-bruised country with a broken economy and rising poverty. But caring for someone who doesn’t want her around at all proves to be difficult and the harsh loneliness of the west coast tests her resilience just as much as the locals do. Particularly the doctor of the nearby town makes her wonder about her place in this middle of nowhere.
Relationships: Grandpa (Stardew Valley)/Original Female Character(s), Harvey (Stardew Valley)/Original Female Character(s), Harvey/Female Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. The Crying Doe

“To Eddie!“  
Four pints filled to the brim meet in the middle of the table, bits of the beer they contain dripping onto worn out wood. In the silence that follows we all take a big sip from our glasses and I savour the taste of the bittersweet flavour. Cheap and watery but beer nonetheless.  
“Twenty-seven”, Molly says, “Yer fucking old, crumpet.”  
“You’ll turn twenty-seven in no less than sixteen days!”, I smile and she shakes her head in response.  
“I have decided that I will remain twenty-six forever.”  
“Ah fuck off, will you?”, I laugh and take another sip.  
Molly and I have been best friends since kindergarten and we have been mercilessly teasing each other since. She was the one who organised this little get-together in our favourite pub, The Crying Doe, to celebrate my birthday.  
“Well, for what it’s worth, Eddie, I don’t think you’ve aged a day. In my eyes you look exactly the way you did when I first met you”, Daniel chimes in, a lopsided smile on his face.  
Silence falls over the table for a few seconds as Molly and I exchange a glance, then we speak at the same time: “Yer fucking blind, Daniel. Literally!”  
He shrugs as he takes a quick sip.  
“Doesn’t make what I said any less true.”  
“Maybe if you were to stop wearing your hair in those stupid little pigtails you’d look yer age more”, Molly continues her teasing as she pulls on one of my braids.  
I slap her hand away, playfully offended.  
“I think she looks cute like this”, Felix chimes in, his cheeks flushed.  
I feel my neck burn, not knowing where to look.  
“Thanks”, I reply sheepishly.  
“I also think you look very cute”, Daniel nods.  
“Enough with the blind jokes already”, says Molly and playfully punches his arm.  
“Aha, punching handicapped men, are we?”  
“God damn it”, Molly sighs then turns to look at me, “I need a smoke. Come with me?”  
Though I have never smoked a single cigarette in my life, I always without fail, accompany Molly when she heads outside. 

It’s a cold autumn night, rain continuously pouring down. We stand under the eaves of the Crying Doe, only half sheltered from the weather. I feel the rain as it slowly soaks through my red shoes and watch the streetlights’ reflection dance on the wet cobblestones. Molly exhales a big cloud of smoke that merges with the darkness of the sky as it moves upwards.  
“I hope it’s okay I invited Felix to come with us.”  
“Of course”, I say, not looking up.  
“He’s really into you”, she continues and without seeing her I knew she is raising her eyebrows in a suggestive manner.  
“I think so too”, I respond and I can feel myself flush.  
Molly sniffles, then takes another drag.  
“Your little affair’s been going on for almost a year at this point, shouldn’t you be like… official by now?”  
“Don’t call it an affair, please”, I say, finally looking up.  
“Then what is it?”, she asks innocently as though she doesn’t know the answer to her own question.  
“I don’t know”, I reply, “We’re… hanging out sometimes.”  
“Naked?”  
I try to suppress the embarrassed laugh that threatens to make the corners of my mouth move upwards.  
“Sometimes”, I confess.  
“And are you hanging out naked with other people too?”  
“No.”  
“But he’s not your boyfriend, is he?”, Molly asks, cigarette between her lips, again as though she does not know the answer.  
“Nope.”  
“Well, until that changes I’ll keep calling it an affair if you don’t mind.”  
And with that she throws the rest of her cigarette on the wet ground and we both watch the small red glow fade. 

The night passes by quickly. The moment my pint is drunk Molly orders another. I lose sight over how many I had but judging by the way the flavour of the beer has burnt itself into my tongue, probably too many. I check my phone to find that it is past midnight, my birthday is officially over.  
“I’m sorry there was no cake, crumpet”, Molly says, her head on my shoulder as she looks at the cracked screen of my phone before I put it back down, “But it’s not easy making a cake for a master baker.”  
“It’s really okay”, I reply, brushing some of her violet hair out of my face as it tickles my skin.  
“We could have bought some at the bakery but it would be a little weird to gift you cake that you made yourself”, Daniel jokes and we all chuckle slightly.  
“Don’t be silly guys, the cakes at the bakery are overpriced anyways”, I reply.  
“See, that’s what I don’t get though, you work your damn ass off in this bakery, they make a ton of money on those rich bastards from Gotoro and yet your pay is even more meagre than mine! And I work as a nanny, god damn it”, Molly says and lifts her head off of my shoulder.  
“I get by”, I reply with a shrug.  
“You get by because you still live with your parents”, Daniel adds.  
“It’s trying times you guys”, I say, suddenly feeling defensive.

The five-year long war between our homeland Ferngill and Gotoro has ended half a decade ago but our economy is still recovering after the inevitable defeat that rolled over us. With the signing of the treaty came a lot of changes in our everyday lives, the most significant of which was the restructuring of our social classes. Since the war ended, many rich people from Gotoro moved here to ‘rebuild’ our very broken republic. But rebuild they did not. They did build, of course, but the buildings and businesses they constructed were nothing like anything we’ve known. The Joja Corporation was one of the main culprits in the fast-paced, sudden and unexpected development of our nation. They introduced a greedy consumerism that was previously unheard of, supermarkets that belong to gigantic chains, appearing at every other corner here in Zuzu, the capital of Ferngill, causing a significant shift in our everyday culture. And to add insult to injury, the money made from this drastic change all goes into the pockets of the people from Gotoro, who were rich businessmen and women to begin with. The way they flaunt their wealth and the way they tend to disregard the culture of our country causes a lot of tension between the nationalities. Many assaults and much abuse fall from this tree of disliking and forced upon poverty and although violence is absolutely not something I support, I must admit to keeping a distance from the people of Gotoro. 

“Rent is skyrocketing”, Felix comes to my defence, “If I could I’d still live with my parents.”  
I feel my face burn. Living with my parents was hardly a choice I made willingly but Molly is right, the money I get for working at the bakery is laughable and it’s practically impossible for me to afford a place all on my own if I want to avoid having to decide between paying rent and eating every month.  
I can sense Molly looking at me with furrowed brows but I keep my eyes on the half empty pint in front of me. Talking about money makes me feel very uncomfortable and I can feel the redness of my cheeks burning my skin.  
“Well, she would probably be able to afford living by herself if she wasn’t spending all of her money on cans of beer and snuff”  
I looked up with a smile as she sang the last few words of her sentence, they were the lyrics to a popular pub song here in Ferngill.  
“Oh no”, Daniel says, clearly fighting a smile.  
“As I stumble home on a September night, to pick me up some gold, all I find are lumps of coal and broken shoes alright”, I continue the song, eyes locked with Molly’s.  
“I rush down the hall to meet my wife, to ask her where’s my gold, but she is gone, left me alone what sadness is my life”, Molly sings back at me.  
I join in for the chorus: “Oh why, oh why, I barely get by on water and dry bread, would be better off and had more stuff if I stopped wasting money on beer and snuff!  
Oh why, oh why, I barely get by alone inside my house would be better off, still have a bride if I stopped wasting time gambling with my pride!”  
Molly and I clink our glasses as we sing the last line and then we both take a deep sip from our pints. Daniel is shaking with laughter by now and Felix is chuckling along.  
“Are you guys trying to take away my sense of hearing as well, huh?”

At around half past two we are the last people left and are politely asked to leave the pub. Standing right where Molly and I stood when she had a smoke a few hours earlier, we discuss whether or not we should go have a drink at someone’s place but we eventually decide against it. I am fairly tired and on top of that there’s a small part inside of me that hopes I will get to spend some time alone with Felix tonight. With one last tight hug I say goodbye to Molly and Daniel, they will share a cab as they always do when we go out, and then I watch as they head down the alley, bickering.  
I shiver and the next second Felix’s arm wraps itself around my shoulder as he pulls me underneath his umbrella.  
“Are you cold?”, he asks with a sweet smile.  
“A little”, I reply, gratefully moving closer, basking in the warmth he’s radiating as we start moving too, “I hope you had some fun tonight.”  
“I did. Your friends are… interesting”, he laughs a little, “And by that I mean they’re a lot of fun.”  
“I love them to death”, I say and instantly regret my choice of words.  
Felix and I usually try to avoid words like ‘love’ when we’re around each other, it’s a part of the strange thing between us. ‘Affair’, I hear Molly’s voice ring in the back of my head but it’s not that. It’s not an affair.  
I stare at the ground, trying my best to play it cool, even though I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Felix seems to be affected by the word too as he timidly clears his throat. As always in situations like this I am quick to change the subject, trying to avoid any discomfort.  
“It’s almost three”, I say, “How weird is it to think that on a normal day I would be working at the bakery right now…”  
“Eddie…”, Felix starts and he slows down a little, which only makes me feel more nervous.  
“I’m lucky I got the day off though”, I continue quickly, “In return I probably have to work on Christmas but that’s perfectly fine.”  
“You look very pretty tonight”, Felix smiles as we come to a complete stop.  
I look down on myself, my favourite red shoes and my blue tights are tightly speckled with drops of rain, even the hem of my yellow dress is a little wet by now, Felix’s umbrella offering only so much shelter for the two of us.  
“Oh”, I say, “Thank you!”  
He leans down and presses a very soft, little kiss on my lips and I melt into him immediately. I breathe him in, the smell of paint and cement that always surrounds him after long days of working in constructions. When he pulls back carefully I let out an unsatisfied sigh. Upon reopening my eyes I find him smiling down at me mischievously.  
“Mean”, I whisper and he chuckles softly.  
“Would you like to stay at my place tonight? It’s closer than your place and…”  
He can’t finish his thought, interrupted by the high-pitched ringing of my phone.  
“Oh”, I say as I pull my cell out of my apple-shaped handbag and read the name on the broken display, “Sorry, that’s my mam.”  
“Don’t worry”, he says as he pulls his arm back, leaving my shoulder exposed to the cold air of the night.

I quickly press the green icon on the screen and position the phone close to my ear. It’s not unusual for my mam to call me to ask where I’m at, I still live at home after all and she does not like going to sleep without knowing I’m safe. Sometimes it makes me feel a bit ridiculous, having to check in with her when I’m out but at the end of the day she just means well.  
“Hey mam”, I greet her hastily, “I just…”  
Her loud sobbing on the other end of the line interrupts my string of words.  
“Mam?”, I ask quietly.  
It sounds like she is trying to say something but her heavy sobs make it impossible to understand what’s behind this attempt.  
“Mam, please”, I say, my voice shaky and I feel my eyes fill with tears as fear washes over me, “Take a deep breath. Talk to me.”  
I know Felix’s questioning eyes are lingering on me but I keep my glance down, looking at the soaked tips of my shoes, listening to my mam gasping for air.  
“It’s grandpa”, she finally manages to say in-between heavy sobs.  
“What happened?”  
Another wave of crying hit her hard and I can feel the first tear slowly moving down the side of my face.  
“Mam!”, I say, a little louder now, “Mam, what’s wrong with grandpa?”  
“He’s in the hospital… He might not make it through the night…”


	2. The West

It’s a cold autumn morning. The sky is full of grey, heavy clouds that promise more rain. I’m standing by the side of an empty road, surrounded by nothing but wet fields, some of them dotted with grey sheep. Worn out wooden fences with wire tied to them, abandoned shacks with chipped paint and stone walls that are eroding in the sharp, salty air. There is not a town anywhere nearby, a small cluster of shabby little houses in the distance is the height of it. I have reached the west coast of this war-shaken island, there is no doubt about it. 

I can hear the bus before I can see it. It is loud, very loud. Like it is begging for mercy. It is old and so slow, it practically crawls towards the stop and with one last, loud bang it halts in front of me. The door in the front has to be opened manually and a woman pokes her head through it. Her hair is dead, bleached and permed so that it is lifelessly clinging onto her head. She has blue eyeshadow on and her mascara is clumpy, her lip-gloss thick and sticky.  
“Ya wanna get on or wha’?”, she asks, her tattooed eyebrows raised.  
“Is this the bus to Pelican Town?”, I retort and with a sigh she gets off the bus.  
“Aye.”  
She is wearing tight pants and a pink hoodie and as she grabs my suitcase without asking further questions, I can see her long acrylic nails and yellow tinted fingers.  
“Ya can get on. I need a smoke.”, she says as she carelessly throws my belongings into the back of the bus.  
“How much for the ride?”  
“Jus’ pu’ a tenner on the board”, she replies, a cigarette pressed between her lips as she pulls a lighter out of the pockets of her hoodie.  
“Cheers”, I say, get on and put the money on the dashboard. 

Since I am the only person on the bus I sit all the way in the back, placing my bright blue backpack next to me like I am trying to keep someone from sitting there. The seats are covered in stains and so ragged that I can see the patting that pokes through the torn fabric. It smells like a mixture of store brand energy drinks, petrol and old sweat in here. The door in the back of the bus must be broken because a wooden board was placed in front of it, presumably to keep it closed. Someone has written ‘ _Work smarter not harder_ ’ with felt-tip on the wood and now I’m wondering if I am going to survive this ride. 

It is about three in the afternoon. I have started my journey six hours ago when I got on the train in Zuzu. It was a long ride and when I finally got off the train in some small town, I had to hitchhike all the way out here to get to this bus stop. I am dead tired already and want nothing more than to be back home but that is not an option anymore.

The driver gets back on with a cough that makes my own lungs hurt as she sits down. I can see her look at me in the rear-view mirror and give her a smile.  
“Good to go?”, she asks, her scowl ever-present.  
“Yes.”  
It takes three attempts for her to start up the bus and I’m not surprised to find that the motor is even louder in here than it was when I was stood outside. The driver starts the radio, some random station I’ve never listened to before. They play a lot of old songs, songs I haven’t heard since I was in school.  
I look out through the window and the same scenery keeps passing by. Endless fields and soft hills with herds of sheep and cows grazing on them. There are some lonely cottages and a handful of cars standing on the side of the road but I do not see a single person out in the open.  
It starts raining after a while and I hear the driver curse the weather as she starts the windscreen wipers, one of which is a tad bit slower than the other one, causing them to collide every other minute. 

My stomach grumbles and I open my backpack, rummaging through it and unearth the sandwich I have bought at an overpriced shop at the train station back in the city. It is squished and looks even more revolting than it did when I first bought it. I tear open the packaging, half plastic and half carton, carefully investigating the contents. White bread with tomatoes, ham, cheese, lettuce and, to my delight, an ungodly amount of mayonnaise. I am hungry enough to eat all of it, save for the tomatoes and the bits of bread that are soaked with the tomato juice, but my stomach is still grumbling. 

When I look back out the window I catch a short glimpse of the ocean. A deeper grey than the sky with white streaks where the waves are collapsing into themselves. Water splashes where the ocean meets the cliffs, uninviting and brutal yet mesmerizing. 

“Ya been ‘ere before?”, the voice of the driver carries over the loud aching of the bus.  
“Yeah. Been a while though.”  
“Comin’ to visit?”  
“Something like that”, I reply, “My grandpa was sick and now someone needs to…”  
“No need to tell me ya sob story, lass. Ma life’s depressin’ enuf”, she interrupts me, “I was jus’ tryin’ to be polite.”  
“Of course”, I say quietly.

I go back to looking out the window, my cheeks flushed. We pass a weathered sign that promises Pelican Town is a mere twenty kilometres away and although I would prefer to be back home, I am excited to finally get off this bus. I lean back with a sigh. 

We enter a tunnel that leads through the foot of a mountain and when we come out on the other side, the bus takes a right turn and with one last moan comes to a halt in a small parking area.  
“We’re ‘ere”, the driver announces as she gets up and opens the door in the front. I zip my backpack back up and leave my seat, following her outside. 

It is drizzling as my bright yellow sneakers touch the gravel that covers the parking space. The driver is already working on retrieving my suitcase from the depths of the bus and I look around curiously. The parking space melts into yet another field and at the other end of the grass is a dirt path that seems familiar.  
“There ya go”, the driver says as she places the suitcase down in front of me, “If ya walk down there you’ll be in Pelican Town in about twenty-five minutes.”  
“Thanks”, I say, grabbing a hold of my suitcase.  
I walk towards the field but turn around again, taking a deep breath to gather confidence.  
“Sorry to bother…”, I say and she looks up, another cigarette between her lips, “But do you know how I can get to Gorse Ridge Farm?”  
“Gorse Ridge Farm?”, she repeats, her eyebrows raised, “Jus’ walk down the other way. Bit o’ a longer walk though”  
“Thanks a million”, I say and give her a small wave to which she responds with a nod.

I make my way through the wet field, dragging my suitcase with me, feeling the moisture crawl into my runners.  
“Ugh… that’s grand”, I mutter under my breath as I finally reach the dirt path.  
It is covered in gravel so I have to carry my suitcase which is very heavy, holding all the clothes I could fit and I have to make multiple stops along the way, shaking my cramping arms as though I can shake off the pain.  
“Crap”, I mutter continuously as I slowly make my way down the path. 

It starts raining a bit heavier and it doesn’t take long for little mud pools to form along the way. My blue tights are covered in dirt and I tumble more than once. When I am just about ready to throw my suitcase into the bushes that seam the path I spot the sign and the iron gate. Gorse Ridge Farm. Finally.

The last hundred metres are surprisingly easy and once I manage to push open the heavy gate I feel gleeful anticipation. I haven’t seen my grandpa’s farm in more than ten years so this is fairly exciting.

I take a deep breath as I walk up to the farmhouse. It is an old building, white with a red door. The windows are dirty and ivy is crawling up the walls in an uncontrolled manner. Everything looks a little crooked but cosy. Smoke is rising from the chimney and it smells like turf, waking memories from my childhood. Rosy cheeks and fingers so cold they were stiff, pressed against a mug of hot tea, dirt under my nails and twigs in my hair from a day of exploring the undergrowth. Scary stories about the brown lady who haunts the forests nearby and bits of biscuit stuck to the roof of my mouth, the fear of going to sleep alone versus the comfort of the soothing fireplace. I shake my head slowly. That’s long gone. Who knows what is waiting for me inside the house.

I walk up to the red door and knock three times. Silence. Nothing moves inside. I knock three more times. Nothing, still. Leaving my suitcase standing by the door I walk up to the window on my right, pressing my hands and forehead against it as I look inside. I see the kitchen, almost exactly the way it used to be years ago, tiles on the wall and on the floor, a heavy wooden table with mismatched chairs, an ancient stove and counters covered in produce, pots and empty glass bottles. I can almost smell it, can almost hear the electric ringing that comes from the old lamp above the table. Three careful knocks on the window, still nothing moves. Worry comes over me as I knock one last time, louder than before. 

“Whadda ya think yer doin’ ‘ere?”  
I turn around in shock. A few feet away stands a man, bushy eyebrows furrowed as he takes off a pair of leather gloves. He’s unshaven, his black hair is wet from the rain and falls into his pale face, dark circles lining his glassy eyes. The blue hoodie he wears is soaked and clearly well worn, covered in holes and old grass and dirt stains.  
“Uh”, I say, trying to make sense of the unexpected situation, “I’m… I’m Edeline Doyle and…”  
“Yer Arthur’s granddaughter?”, the stranger interrupts and I immediately nod.  
“Exactly!”, I smile, relieved to hear that my arrival was expected after all, “I’m here to take care of… well… everything, really. And who are you?”  
He eyes me warily, clearly uncertain what to make of me. His eyes are so dark, in the weak light of this autumn evening they seem almost completely black.  
“I’m Shane”, he finally says, “I work for ya grandpa.”  
“Oh that’s great”, I say excitedly, “I’ll definitely need someone to help me learn how to navigate my way around here, I have no experience with farming at all. I’m a baker, you see?”  
I did not think it possible but his frown intensifies as my words sink in.  
“I don’ get paid to teach people”, he replies simply.  
“Oh”, I stammer, “Of… of course… sorry.”  
We look at each other for a moment, Shane buries his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and after a few seconds I timidly smile at him.  
“Please…”, I say then, “Where’s my grandpa?”


	3. Grandpa

Shane lets out an exceptionally heavy sigh in response to my question.  
“He’s in there, pro’ly asleep”, he says finally.  
“Oh… okay”, I reply, smiling in relief, “How is he?”  
He looks up at the sky for a second then back at me with those glassy dark eyes of his.   
“Why don’ ya ask his nurse about his health? I’m just the stable-lad, alright?”  
I’m a bit dumbfounded by his slight hostility and he seems to notice as his expression softens ever so slightly, then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he speaks again, almost as if he tries to calm himself down.  
“Look, a nurse has been takin’ care ‘o him up until now, her name’s Maru. She’s in town to get meds or somethin’. She’ll be back in twenty and then you can pester her, alright?”  
“Oh”, I beam up at him, surprised at the sudden helpfulness, “Thank you!”  
He only grunts, then marches off. 

I watch him head over to the stables, wondering how on earth he’s not cold at all, wearing nothing but a hoodie. Once he’s out of sight I turn to face the red door again, carefully trying to open it but it’s locked. With a heavy sigh I clumsily sit down on my suitcase, waiting for the nurse to come back from her trip, killing time by taking in the farm.  
I can hear Shane rummaging in the big red barn on the western part of the land, that is surrounded by hardwood fences, handmade by grandpa himself. The occasional moo floats across the colourful vegetable patch that is full of pumpkins, aubergines, cranberries, sweet potatoes, beets and grapes that all promise some bitter-sweetness in the cold seasons. I remember the taste of grandpa’s homemade jams and pickles and at the mere thought my mouth starts watering. My stomach grumbles and I force myself to look away. My eyes land on the little fenced area around the coop. Not a single patch of grass is left, the chickens made sure of that. The earth is churned and stray feathers of pale brown and dirty white decorate the ground.   
Shane leaves the barn and closes it up so the cows won’t be able to get out during the night although I doubt they would want to get out into this cold. I carefully move my fingers and breathe against them in an attempt to warm them up a little, meanwhile Shane, in his thin attire, packs up a bunch of tools, seemingly getting ready to head on home. I watch as he walks south, hands in his pockets when a voice makes me jump.

“Oops, sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you”  
I look around to find a young woman standing exactly where Shane stood during our conversation earlier. She’s holding a small plastic bag in one hand and in the other she holds a bunch of keys. I get up and carefully smile at her.  
“You must be Edeline, right? Arthur’s granddaughter?”  
“That’s me”, I nod, “And you’re my grandfather’s nurse, right? Mary?”  
“Maru”, she corrects me with a little grin and as I open my mouth to apologise she raises one hand, “Don’t worry, happens all the time.”  
We walk up to the red door and she unlocks it. 

The warmth of the house is consuming me, biting my cold skin with very welcome little teeth as I step into the hallway.   
“I’m sorry you had to wait out front, Pam must have told me the wrong arrival time of your bus”, Maru says as we walk into the kitchen.  
“Who?”  
“Pam? The bus driver? Bleached hair, blue eyes?”  
“Ah, yes!”.  
“She told me you’d get here at five so I thought I have plenty of time to get your grandpa’s meds from the clinic in town”, Maru explains, placing the plastic bag on the kitchen table.  
“I did get here at five actually”, I reply with a small smile.  
“Really?”, she lifts her arm, looking at something that remotely resembles a watch, “Oh damn it! It’s broken, it still shows four thirty.”  
I stare at the strange gadget around her wrist. It is much bigger than an average watch and seems to have multiple displays as well as some green lights that are blinking arrhythmically.  
“That looks interesting”, I say curiously.  
“Oh, that’s just something I threw together on a Sunday night”, she replies without looking up, “I should have spent more time on it though, evidently.”  
“You made this?”, I ask astounded.  
She finally looks back up with a proud smile.  
“Yeah. I like tinkering, it’s great fun.”  
“That is so impressive.”  
A small blush creeps up her face.  
“It’s nothing”, she says as she starts taking off her jacket, scarf and hat.   
I take a good look at her. She wears her dark hair in a blunt bob, a pair of thick glasses frame her deep brown eyes and her dark complexion shimmers softly in the pale light of the kitchen. She is very pretty and I love the purple jumper she’s sporting. 

A strange silence surrounds us for a few moments, disturbed only by the electric ringing coming from the lamp above the kitchen table.   
“How is he?”, I ask finally  
Maru gives me a small smile.   
“He should be asleep right now”, she confirms what Shane said earlier, “And I think he’s doing alright, getting better every day. Like… by now he can use the toilet on his own and he can change his clothes by himself, but even that exhausts him greatly. Ruptured intestines are no joke, especially at his age so he won’t be up and running around the farm anytime soon I’m afraid. But he’s going to be okay.”  
“That’s good”, I nod, “That’s very good…”  
“He’s lucky you came. I’ve been staying here since he got to leave the clinic so I could take care of him but it’s much nicer to have family around in such difficult times.”

A feeling of guilt washes over me as Maru speaks. I haven’t been out here in many years, not since grandma died. My mam and grandpa got into a big fight after the funeral and none of us have come to visit since, which means that I haven’t seen or spoken to grandpa in about fifteen years. But despite their big fight, mam is still grandpa’s emergency contact and when he was rushed to the hospital three weeks ago, the doctor called her to let her know about his emergency operation. That’s when she rang me, while I was standing in the alley near the Crying Doe with Felix. Mam was very upset, thinking that grandpa was going to die before they had a chance to make peace. But he didn’t die. He survived the operation without further complications but now he needs someone to take care of him, that’s what his doctor told my mam on the phone.   
It wasn’t difficult to figure out which one of us was to come here to help him. Mam and dad are teachers, there is no way they could quit their jobs to move out here and my older sister Rowena is pregnant, pretty much about to burst so the only person left was me. The girl with a very meagre income that still lived at home.   
It wasn’t easy for me to leave, I’ve never been away from home on my own before and the idea of moving away from my family or from Molly, Daniel or Felix was very anxiety inducing to say the least. But grandpa’s family too and I knew that coming here was the right thing to do. So I quit my job, packed my things and got on the train to come out here.   
And now that I am standing here, in my grandpa’s ancient kitchen, I begin to feel just slightly overwhelmed. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to help? Bake a cake? Because, if I’m being honest with myself, that’s really all I am good at. 

Maru seems to read my mind as she gives me an encouraging smile.  
“You won’t have to do much to help out around here, I promise. Just make sure he has three proper meals, maybe clean a little, change his sheets every once in a while and keep him company. I assume you also have to help out on the farm but you should probably talk to Shane about that, that’s his turf”, she explains.  
“I don’t think Shane likes me much”, I reply which makes her laugh.  
“Shane doesn’t like anyone much, don’t let that discourage you”, she says with a small shrug, “Oh! Do you hear that?”  
Maru raises her index finger and looks up at the ceiling. I listen closely and to my surprise the silence of the farmhouse is now filled with very faint music.   
“Sounds like your grandpa is up”, Maru smiles, “Do you want to go say hello?”  
“Sure”, I say, my voice a little shaky as I wonder how he will react when he sees me.   
Better not imagine it. Grandpa is good at holding grudges and he had fifteen years to rile himself up.   
“Cool, I already started making dinner, I’ll finish that up in the meantime so you can spend tonight unpacking. You know where his bedroom is, right?”, Maru asks and places a pot on the stovetop.   
“I think so”, I nod, “Thank you for the help.”  
“Not a problem.”  
After a few more moments of hesitation I turn around and leave the kitchen. My heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my throat as I walk down the hallway towards the wooden door that leads to my grandpa’s bedroom. The music that fills the air is getting louder the closer I get and the sound takes me back in time to summer nights in the garden, radio out on a small iron table, grandma and grandpa dancing on the grass, illuminated by candles and fireflies, the sweet taste of tea clinging to my lips. I knock carefully, my thoughts still lingering in the garden. 

“Come in”  
His voice, so similar yet so different, much quieter, much rougher, but then again I’m not a child anymore so that’s hardly a surprise. People use a much harsher voice when they talk to adults. The music has stopped abruptly.   
I open the door and carefully step into the room.  
“Hello grandpa”, I say, my voice still a bit shaky.   
He looks up at me for a few seconds before he shifts to face me properly. I’m shocked. Grandpa’s skin is pale and paper-like, almost translucent. His head is bald and covered in age spots, wrinkles carved deeply into his face, half hidden behind a long, white beard. He looks old which shouldn’t be a surprise but somehow it is. His eyes, though very pale and watery, are piercing, making me shuffle uncomfortably as I am standing in the door.   
“It’s good to see you”, I continue carefully.  
He looks at me for a few more seconds before he finally speaks.   
“Ya look ridiculous, Edeline.”  
I look down on myself and realise that not only am I still wearing my bright red coat and yellow shoes, I am also covered in mud from my walk earlier, so much so that even the blue of my tights is strangely murky.   
“I’m sorry, I have clean clothes with me, I promise”, I smile, trying to lighten his mood a little.  
“So yer stayin’, huh?”, he huffs.  
“I… Yes, of course! I’m here to help”  
“So all it took for ya to come out ‘ere was for me to almost bite the dust?”, he says, his voice dripping with supressed anger.  
I don’t know what to say to that so I smile and shift my weight from one foot to the other.  
“It’s nice to be back though”, I try after a few uncomfortable moments, “It’s… It still looks the same!”  
He only grunts in response, turns around and with a slow movement of his hand turns the radio back on and the volume up. That is the end of the conversation.


	4. Oatmeal and Tea

Pale grey light of an early autumn morning. The tip of my nose is cold and so are my toes. The thick socks I’m wearing over my tights can’t keep out the chill that is trapped in the old kitchen tiles. The sound of the rain that steadily knocks on the window merges with the sound of the kettle, merges with the sound of the oatmeal bubbling away on the stove. It’s only six but I am wide awake, nervous to start my first day here on grandpa’s farm. 

Maru went through all my daily tasks with me before she left last night. Wake up early, make breakfast for grandpa and give him his meds, entertain him a little, work around the house or on the farm, make lunch for grandpa and give him his meds, entertain him a little, work around the house or on the farm, make dinner for grandpa and give him his meds, entertain him a little, work around the house or on the farm, make sure he’s had enough to drink before he goes to sleep and don’t forget to give him his meds. My tasks sounded easy enough when Maru listed them but now that I am facing a day filled to the brim with lack of familiarity, I feel uncomfortable in my skin.  
I watch in disgust as the oatmeal slowly thickens. It was too plain to be good but after I unsuccessfully searched the kitchen for cinnamon, raisins, chai spice or any other condiments to make the pulp more palatable, I figured this must be how grandpa has his breakfast usually. 

With one heavy sigh I turn my gaze away from the pot and face the window instead, the very same one I looked through just yesterday and a wave of surprise washes over me.  
“I don’t believe it”, I murmur as I walk across the room to the window.  
Outside, on the windowsill, lop-eared, matt-grey fur with many bald patches and covered in dirt sits a cat. As I open the window it turns to look at me warily through one yellow eye. The other eye seems to be missing, causing the right side of his little face to appear slightly contorted.  
“How are you still alive?”, I ask in a hushed voice as I let him sniff my hand.  
Randolph, that’s what I named him when I found him during my last visit at grandpa’s farm, just before grandma died. He was in the barn, the only one of his litter that survived. He was hidden under a layer of straw, surrounded by his long-gone brothers and sisters but he screamed just loud enough for me to hear as I helped with feeding the cows. Grandpa said he wouldn’t make it but I spent the rest of my summer caring for his little soul and Randolph grew stronger with every passing day and it seems as though he is still going semi-strong.  
He sniffs my hand tentatively and as I move to pet his little head he hisses and jumps off the sill, showing me his shockingly thin body as he moves up and down the house front with a slight limp. I assume grandpa has not cared for him much since I left and he is probably too old to effectively hunt. Without thinking about it I step away from the window to open the fridge and pour some milk into a bowl. Not ideal but good enough for now.  
I place the bowl on the windowsill and move away.  
“It’s okay, Randolph”, I say as he looks up at me from the wet ground, “It’s all yours, I won’t bother you anymore.”  
With that I finally close the window, rubbing my hands against each other in an attempt to warm them back up. I sniffle, then sigh. I burnt the oatmeal. 

Grandpa doesn’t say much that morning. He is already dressed when I enter the bedroom with his breakfast on a tray. Maru has told me he is still too weak to eat in the kitchen but he doesn’t want to eat in his bed either so he does so at his desk.  
“Do you need help getting up?”, I ask as I place the tray on the wooden surface.  
“Nah”, he replies and slowly lifts himself out of the bed.  
I watch as he limps towards the desk and am reminded of Randolph. With one heavy sigh he plops down on the wooden chair and looks at his breakfast.  
“Maru told me what you like”, I say, “I hope this is okay?”  
He grunts in response and grabs the spoon, slowly starting to eat, slurping and chewing loudly.  
“Is it any good?”, I ask after I awkwardly watch him have a few bites.  
Another grunt as he reaches for his mug of tea. It’s the same mug he had all those years ago. White with gorse painted on it. Bright yellow dots on fine green lines.  
I try to pick the colourful meds out of his pillboxes, all according to the cheat sheet Maru left me.  
“Dr Jones’ handwriting is quite a mess”, she’s said as she handed the note to me, “But it holds all the information that you need. I left you my number on the kitchen table so you can call me anytime you have questions and of course the doc himself will come by once a week, maybe twice to check on your grandpa. The number of the clinic is also written down so you should have no trouble getting in contact with us, alright?”  
I did not have the mental capacity last night to ask who on earth Dr Jones is as I tried to take in every last drop of information she poured on me but whoever this is, their handwriting should be illegal. I squint at the piece of paper in my hand, trying to decipher the writing but God knows, this could be written in a different language and I wouldn’t realise.  
“The green ones. The big one and the small one”, grandpa says with his mouth still full.  
“Thank you”, I reply as I take the two pills out of their respective blisters, “I’ll get the hang of it, I promise.”  
I place the pills on his tray, then resume awkwardly watching him eat for a while.  
“So…”, I say once his oatmeal is all gone, “What do you want to do today? I think I saw chutes and ladders in the guest room, maybe we could…”  
“I don’ need ya talkin’ to me, Edeline”, he interrupts without looking up at me, “I need ya to do the things I can’t do. Cook, clean and help on the farm. So, for the love o’ me, do just that.”  
“Right”, I say quietly, feeling the redness rise in my cheeks, “I’ll help out on the farm then?”  
Another grunt, then he takes his pills and empties his cup of tea before getting up and slowly moving back to bed. He fiddles with the radio and a few seconds later the croaky voice of the announcer fills the room, reading the news of the day. I pick up the tray and make to leave the room.  
“I’ll check in with you in a bit, okay?”  
I did not expect an answer so I just close the door behind me with a heavy sigh. This won’t be easy but I will manage. I’ll have to.

As I walk back into the kitchen, my phone buzzes. I sent a text to my mam, Molly and Felix last night, neither of which have replied so far so I am eager to put the tray down and pull my cell out of my pocket. It’s a message from mam.

_Hey sunflower! I’m glad you made it to the farm alright. How is grandpa? Is he being nice? I hope he’s not giving you the cold shoulder… We miss you already, please call soon! All our love!_

For a few seconds I think about replying immediately but then I change my mind. Instead I start to wash the dishes by hand, let the pot that has burnt oatmeal stuck to the bottom of it soak and as I wipe the counters I realise just how dirty my grandpa’s kitchen is. I look for proper cleaning supplies, then pull up the sleeves of my cardigan and start scrubbing away. I throw out cans of old food, dried up herbs and mouldy vegetables, wash all the pots and pans, vases and bowls that cover the countertops, scrub the tiles on the wall and on the floor until all the dirt comes off, I clean every single shelf in the fridge and inside of the counters, I wipe the table and the chairs and the windowsill and dust off the shelves full of empty glass jars and bottles. By the time I’m done it’s almost noon. The kitchen is spotless but it seems as though all the dirt is now on my tights and my dress. I sit in one of the chairs around the table, my arms and fingers aching from all the scrubbing as I notice movement outside. Shane is back, pushing a wheelbarrow full of small rocks across the land, the circles under his eyes looking somehow worse than they did last night but that might just be the change of light. I wonder what he does when he should be sleeping. As I look outside I also notice that the bowl of milk I put outside for Randolph is empty which brings a smile to my face. At least someone appreciates my efforts here. 

For lunch I’m mixing lentils with potatoes and tomato sauce from a can. It’s nothing special and rather simple but for today I have to make due with what’s left after my thorough cleaning session. I need to go shop for groceries tomorrow or the day after.  
I serve the food to grandpa and he accepts it with a grunt, his face hidden behind an old book. I figured out which pills to give him while cooking lunch so I have placed them on the tray, right next to the glass of water.  
“Enjoy”, I say as I leave the room, not willing to awkwardly watch him eat again.  
Instead I have lunch by myself in the kitchen, counting how many times Shane walks by the window. Once I finished my portion I pull out my phone and reply to my mam.

_Grandpa’s alright, we’re still getting used to each other but we’ll be fine, don’t worry! I miss you too, hope to see you soon!_

Of course I’m not sure if the first sentence holds any truth at all but here’s to hoping. With one heavy sigh I get moving again. Grandpa has gone to the toilet as I enter his room to set down a cup of tea and collect the dirty dishes, which saves me from an uncomfortable silence. As I wash the dishes I listen for the sound of the bathroom door open to make sure he manages to go after his business without falling and once he returns to the bedroom, I pour the leftover food into another bowl, grab a fresh cup of tea, put on my shoes and head out into the cold.

Shane is standing in the distance, clearing some debris. I walk through the grass towards him, the bowl of food in one hand, cup of tea in the other, past the vegetable patch that smells like wet soil. My shoes and my tights are soaked by the time I reach him but I manage to smile at him brightly.  
“Good afternoon, Shane”, I say and only now does he look up at me.  
“What?”  
“I brought you some lunch”, I reply and hold up the full dishes, “I thought you might be hungry, I haven’t seen you eating all morning.”  
“Are ya watchin’ me or sumthin’?”, he asks, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.  
“No, of course not”, I attempt to appease, “But I worked in the kitchen all day and I saw you walk by a couple times…”  
He says nothing, just eyes me warily. The silence that falls around us makes me feel a bit uncomfortable and the longer it goes on the sillier I feel. What was I thinking?  
“It’s nothing special, just some veggies and tea but it’s pretty cold outside so I thought you might enjoy a hot meal…”, I continue quietly, “Or have you brought something from home?”  
He looks at the bowl of food, lips still pressed together tightly.  
“I can put it down somewhere so you can eat it later? At least have some tea, please. It’s freezing and you’re only wearing a hoodie…”, I continue.  
“I don’ usually eat durin’ the day”, he says finally.  
“Oh”, is all I can come up with.  
“But I’ll eat it if it means tha’ much to ya”, he adds and I can’t help but smile up at him.  
“Grand!”, I hand him the bowl of food and the tea and he walks half a metre to sit down on an old log, places the cup down next to him and starts eating the pulp.  
After a few bites he looks up at me and gives me a curt nod.  
“Good.”  
“I’m glad.”  
A few moments pass, the air filled only with the clinking of his spoon against the bowl and the rain hitting the leaves and the roof.  
“So… Shane?”  
“Hm?”  
“Grandpa said I’m ought to help out on the farm…”  
“Mh.”  
“I’d like to… you know… be useful so I wanted to ask if you need some helping hands around here?”  
He puts the bowl down a bit as he looks up at me, lips stained a little from the tomatoes, and eyes me carefully as though he wants to know what wood I’m made out of.  
“Ya can help me with the animals later. I’ll show ya how it’s done, but only once. Alright?”, he huffs at last.  
“Great! That’s great! I’m excited to help!”  
“Mhm. Ya should change tho. A dress is not the right thing to wear in a barn.”  
“You got it!”


	5. Bruises

Shane moves slowly and deliberately as he shoos the cows into the barn. I count the big creatures as they step inside with a few calm moos. There’s eleven of them. Once they’re out of sight Shane pulls down the heavy iron door and with a jerk of his head tells me to follow him.  
I clumsily climb over the hardwood fence and march across the paddock towards him, feeling my feet sink deeply into the mud with every step.

„Aight, so we’re gon‘ feed ‘em and while they eat, we’ll clean up. Got it?”, Shane moves to a much smaller iron door on the other end of the barn.  
It’s raining and I hate the way my wet jeans stick to my legs.  
“Got it”, I say.  
“Don’ move too fast, okay? It stresses ‘em out”, he continues and he shoots me a look that makes me a little nervous.  
“Do I move too fast?”, I ask, slightly concerned.  
Instead of answering he opens the door and steps into the barn. I follow him and am immediately surrounded by the musky, dirty, warm smell of cows. They moo in anticipation as they see us enter and walk on over to the feeding troughs, looking over the iron barrier that separates them from us with those kind, brown eyes. 

“Right, we usually have enuf hay down ‘ere but should ya need more, jus’ climb up the ladder over there and get some from the attic. Jus’ don’ fall, ‘kay?  
“Okay”, I say, looking in the direction he pointed in to find a brittle-looking ladder that leads through a hole in the ceiling, little bits of pale yellow hay resting on the rungs. 

Up there is where I found Randolph all those years ago. When I was a kid I was never allowed to climb up on my own so of course I did exactly that constantly. Memories fill my brain, the hay underneath my soft skin as I lay down to read in the light of my torch, making me feel itchy all over. Spiders and bugs tickling my cheeks, getting tangled in my hair. The sweet smell of it, surrounding me, serving as an everlasting reminder that I am hidden away from the adults and all the problems they always came up with. 

“Come on!”, Shane tears me away from my thoughts.  
I follow him across the barn and he hands me one of two hayforks. Without another word he uses the tool to manoeuvre the hay from a neat pile over the barrier and into the feeding troughs. The cows immediately feed, big pale tongues pulling chunks of the hay into their mouths. Silence falls over the room, not one moo can be heard.  
I copy Shane and although I really do try my best, I am much slower than he is, not that that comes as a surprise. Though he’s just a bit taller than me and broadly built, hidden underneath that pale blue hoodie is an impressive amount of strength. 

Once the feeding troughs are full Shane puts the hayfork aside.  
“Aight, now we’re gon’ clean up a little. Hope yer not havin’ any problems workin’ with shit”, he says as he moves to a small gate in the barrier that leads to the area where the cows are standing.  
I put my hayfork next to his and follow him, closing the gate behind me. Without a word he pushes a dirty broom into my hands and he himself grabs a rusty shovel. He walks towards a stained window and opens it, then he starts throwing out dry pieces of dung and chunks of hay. I assume that there’s a dung heap right outside that window. 

“Come on”, he snarls, “Or do ya have a issues with getting’ ya hands dirty?”  
Instead of responding I begin sweeping, pushing the dirt on the floor towards Shane so he can scoop it up with his shovel and throw it out of the window.

There’s not much to say I suppose, not when you’re working with literal shit. The smell of it is intense and I can feel it burning inside of my nose as I try to breathe through my mouth instead. But this is definitely not unbearable. Sure, it stinks and sweeping shit isn’t the most pleasant thing to do but I don’t mind it. I never mind working, I have always liked it, even when I was younger. Focusing on a task, doing the best you can and the rewarding feeling that comes with a job well done... It’s why I stopped going to school when the war started eleven years ago. Our family needed money and I was ready to work. There was no way I could have gone to university, we could have never afforded that, so the last two years in high school would have been a waste of time anyways. I dropped out and started working at the bakery as an apprentice. It wasn’t much money, that job, but during the war all money was good money. 

We finish within twenty minutes and put the tools back into their place, Shane closes the gate in the barrier behind us and takes one last look around, then gives me a quick nod. 

He leaves the barn first, through the small iron door. The cold air hits me in the face like a whip as I step out behind him, the door falling shut with a loud bang. My hand is holding onto the doorframe to give me some stability as I feel the mud give way under my feet, fingertips gracing the rusty hinges, the scent of metal filling my nose. I only linger for a second but it is that one second, that one short moment that leads to what occurs next. 

“Ya forgot ter turn the lights off”, Shane hisses as he turns and forcefully opens the door again.  
Pain shoots through me, from my squished fingers all the way up my arm, down my neck and into the rest of my body.  
Shane lets go of the door and it falls shut once more but I don’t hear the bang over the loud ringing in my ears. I can’t breathe as I carefully pull back my hand from in-between that awfully heavy door and the door frame. I look at my fingers in horror, my face contorted in pain. And even though not a sound has escaped me, Shane looks at me, horrified. 

“Fuckin’ hell!”, he screamed, “What the fuck are ya doin’?”  
I can’t speak, so I simply shake my head and wrap my uninjured fingers around my injured ones, press them close to my chest and bend slightly forward, trying to catch my breath.  
“Fuck!”, Shane shouts again, “Are they broken? Can ya move ‘em? Fuckin’ hell!”  
Finally I manage to gasp for air and I choose to use it wisely so I let out one very quiet ‘Agh’. 

“Can ya move ‘em?”, Shane asks me again, and I can see how he nervously shifts his weight.  
I feel my pulse in my fingers now, which I assume is a bad sign so I decide not to look at them just yet. Instead I crouch down, inhaling the muddy, dirty smell of the ground, my hands pressed to my stomach.

“Are ya bleedin’?”, Shane asks, “Fuckin’ talk to me, will ya?”  
I finally release my tight grip around my injured hand and move it away from my body just far enough so that I can take a peek. My little and my ring finger were squished badly so I am not surprised to see that they are turning a pale purple colour.

“It’s okay”, I breathe, my voice almost inaudible, “Don’t worry…”  
Shane watches me without saying a word as I slowly get back up. I swallow the tears that are building up now that the shock is wearing off.  
“It’s really okay”, I repeat more to myself than to Shane, my chest tightening with every pulsing I feel in my fingers.  
“Fuckin’ hell”, Shane mutters again, then the look on his face changes from concerned to angry, “Watch out where ya put ya hands, will ya? A farm’s no place for daydreamin’!”  
I’m still having trouble breathing steadily so I simply nod in response while Shane continues swearing but I hardly hear him at this point, focusing solely on the pulsing sensation in my fingers. 

He shows me how to tend to the chickens next. The sun is slowly setting and the birds are hidden away already.  
“I feed’ ‘em only once in the mornin’. The compost is right next to the coop, so they usually dig in there durin’ the day”, Shane explains as he opens the gate to their enclosure.  
“Is that healthy for them?”, I ask, still rather breathlessly.  
“They’re omnivores, aren’t they?”, he huffs.  
“Right…”, I respond absentmindedly.

The coop is pretty small, not big enough for us to enter but I watch Shane open a tiny part of the pitched roof, making the rusty, old hinges of the opening scream in agony.  
“That’s the corner where they usually lay their eggs”, he explains and proceeds to stick an arm through the opened roof.  
The chickens cackle, reminding me of a group of incensed old ladies that would sometimes come to the bakery just to complain about how the cakes and the coffee aren’t as good as they used to be.  
“Do they peck you at all?”, I ask and to my big surprise, Shane starts laughing.  
“Nah, they’re very lovely lasses.”  
I wonkily smile at that and as he catches my expression, his changes immediately. Furrowed brows and a deep frown but the slight pink tint in his cheeks makes me think I might have uncovered a softer side to him but before I can comment on this, he pulls his arm out of the coop. Wrapped in his fingers is a large brown egg that has a single, soft-looking feather stuck to it.  
“I check for eggs twice a day. They’re supposed to lay within six hours o’ sunrise but some o’ ‘em are a little slower sometimes.”  
“How many are there?”, I ask curiously.  
“Nine”, he replies, “Used ter be twelve but that darn fox was hungry.”  
“Shit.”  
“Mhm.”

We lock the chickens in and close up the gate soon after. I’m carefully holding the last two eggs we found in my uninjured hand as I watch Shane put away some of the tools he has used in the morning.

“Right”, he says after closing the shed behind him, “I’m headin’ home now.”  
“Do you live far?”  
“Nah”, he replies curtly, followed by an awkward silence.  
I can see his beetle black eyes dart to my injured hand that is limply hanging on the side of my body.  
“Ya wanna like… I don’t fuckin’ know, see the doctor or somethin’?”  
In surprise I look down at my purple fingers that appear to be a little swollen. The pain has faded a bit, only shooting through me when I move my hand so I hold it still, which leaves me with a simple, dull pulsing, almost faint enough to be ignored.  
“Thank you, but it’s okay I think. I’ll put something cold on it and I’ll be good as new tomorrow.”  
“If ya say so”, he replies, then turns to leave, “See ya.”  
“Get home safe!”, I shout after him and watch as he slowly makes his way down towards the southern exit.

For dinner I clumsily peel, cube and boil a handful of potatoes that I found in the cupboards when I cleaned earlier in the day, ignoring the pain that shoots through my fingers. Once the vegetables are cooked, I put them in a frying pan and add the two eggs that we found in the coop. The salt and pepper give it at least a little flavour, so I put the meagre meal on two plates and give grandpa his dinner with a big glass of water and three colourful pills. 

“Yer dirty”, he growls as he watches me put his tray on the desk.  
“I helped Shane on the farm”, I say with a proud smile.  
“Mh”, he replies, his pale eyes fixed on my purple tinted fingers.  
He doesn’t ask about it but I still lift my hand and give a small shrug.  
“I got hurt. But it’s really not too bad.”

Grandpa starts eating and I think I can hear him mutter the words “Good for nothing” under his breath but I decide that I must have misheard and instead clear my throat to start a new subject, one I am genuinely nervous about.  
“So… I cleaned the kitchen today and realised that there’s hardly any food left…”  
He keeps eating without displaying any kind of sign to indicate that he even heard what I said.  
“I was thinking about going to town to buy some groceries but there’s a small issue with that…”  
Finally he puts the fork down.  
“There’s sum money in the box atop o’ the fireplace. Take whatcha need but don’ spend too much. And I don’t want ya usin’ my truck!”  
“I won’t”, I reply with a relieved smile, “Thank you, grandpa.”  
“Mhm”

The bath feels good. I hold my breath and submerge in the old porcelain tub, listening to the water in my ears, eyes closed, counting the seconds before I have to resurface and go on with my reality.

_One, two, three, four…_

The warmth of the water hardly reaches my cold bones and I am surprised to find myself missing summer. I usually really like the colder seasons; the weather is much kinder on the soul and people are gentler too. Most people anyways. Good things happen on rainy afternoons or during the first snowfall of the season, when you’re wearing a warm jumper and holding a hot mug of tea close to your chest and bad things happen on hot summer nights and during thunderstorms when your clothes stick to your sweaty skin and the heat takes your breath away.

_Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…_

I breathe out, letting all the air that’s left inside of me rise in small bubbles, a wave of loneliness washing over me. My chest feels tight and my lungs start to sting as my body craves oxygen and company.

_Forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three…_

I sit. Stars swirling before my eyes as I take a few hectic breaths. Water drips down my face and I wipe my eyes forcefully. I need comfort. 

I get out of the tub, body dripping wet and I grab my phone that I’ve placed on the edge of the sink. Molly has called me earlier today when I was outside so I try to call her back but I get straight to voice mail. She must have forgotten to charge her cell.  
It’s late, a bit past eleven and I know my parents are asleep at this time of the day so I can’t talk to them either. I sit down on the edge of the bathtub, cold porcelain against my bare skin and I hesitate for just a moment before I call Felix.

He was asleep, I can hear it in his voice.  
“Eddie”, he says quietly, “Everything okay?”  
I stare at the mosaic of old tiles on the wall, goose bumps covering my naked body and the sound of his slightly hoarse voice makes me feel even more homesick. For a moment I get lost in thought as I imagine what it would be like to lie in bed next to him, his warm arms wrapped around me, holding me close, tickling my neck with little kisses. I shiver. It’s cold. It’s late. This is ridiculous. 

“Yes”, I reply, “Everything is okay.”  
Felix is quiet for a few seconds, taking in my shaky response.  
“How is the farm?”, he asks then.  
“It’s okay”, I reply.  
“How are the people? Are they nice?”  
“No”, I say, “No, they’re not.”  
“Oh.”

Another shiver runs through my body and I look at my brightly bruised fingers that match the thin veins, visible through the skin of my hand.  
“It’s okay”, I say finally, “I’ll manage. I’m sure it’ll all get better once I settle in properly. It’s only been a day.”  
“You’re too good”, he replies.  
“Were you asleep?”, I ask even though I know the answer.  
“No”, he lies to comfort me and it is this comfort that I crave.  
“I miss home.”  
“You’ll be back soon.”

He has no way of knowing that, therefore this is merely another comforting lie. But I take it, I take the untruth because I can’t accept the reality of this situation, not in the middle of the night as I sit naked on the edge of an old bathtub. That is no place for the truth. 

“Yes”, I say with a weak smile, “I’ll be back soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy! Austria is going back into lockdown so I’ll have plenty of time to write (hehe huff)  
> Ps: Dr Harvey will make an appearance in the next chapter so check that out next week maybe (:


	6. The Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a wild harvey appears

Wet dirt sticks to my hands and a painful sensation continuously pulsates through my injured fingers. It drizzles and I can feel my hair as it starts sticking to my face, the taste of plain oatmeal still lingering on my palate like an obtrusive perfume, the kind that the rude elderly women wore when they came into the bakery on Sunday mornings. Customers were always angrier on Sundays and on public holidays for some reason but in all my time at the bakery I never figured out why. 

I push my hand into the cranberry bush, ignoring the pain shooting through me as I wrap my fingers around a twig that carries a bunch of the berries. I pull them off and drop the red orbs into the bucket that I hold in my other hand. 

The grey light of autumn is covering everything in a strange haze and although I know I’ve only been out in the vegetable patch for about two hours and it can only be around noon, it feels like the day’s already over. 

This morning was the same as yesterday, I got up, made breakfast and cleaned up around the house a little. Grandpa was very short with me and even shooed me out of the room when I came back to collect his dirty dishes so I was all the happier when Shane arrived and I could finally get out of the small farmhouse where I started to feel like the ceiling was falling onto my head. 

Shane greeted me in his usual curt manner, accepted the tea I made for him and then told me to pick as many cranberries as I could. I don’t know if he just wants me out of his way or if he’s worried I can’t do heavier work with my injured hand but the work in the vegetable patch is quite tranquil, if a bit monotone. If only it wasn’t so cold…

I put down the bucket full of berries and rub my arm with my uninjured hand to warm up a little as I see an old Jeep pull up right outside the iron gate of the farm. That’s strange. The engine turns off and the headlights go out, the car is parked. There’s a brief pause and I quickly look around to see if Shane is anywhere nearby but the only trace of him is the distant chopping noise as he cuts up firewood somewhere behind the barn. As I turn back to the vehicle, the driver’s door is being opened and out steps a tall man.

Without taking my eyes off him I carefully wipe my wet and dirt stained hands on the denim overall I’m wearing and step out of the vegetable patch to walk towards the stranger who has shut the car door behind him and is now walking to the iron gate, clearly intending to come on in. 

“Hello!”, I shout in an upbeat tone and he turns to look at me in surprise.  
“Oh, hello”, he replies, swinging the gate open and stepping onto the farmland.   
“Can I help you?”, I ask with a curious smile, still walking closer.  
The stranger looks at me for a few seconds, through a pair of finely rimmed glasses, his brows furrowed before his expression changes and he smiles at me knowingly.  
“Ah! You must be Edeline, right? Arthur Walsh’s granddaughter?”, he says and I can’t help but notice his awfully posh accent which clearly reveals him to be from Gotoro. 

That’s strange, these people don’t usually move far away from the big cities of Ferngill, and Pelican Town is no city by any stretch.   
“That’s me”, I say with a weak smile, “And you are…?”  
He shakes his head and laughs.  
“Ah, pardon me! I’m Dr Jones, your grandfather’s practitioner. I’m here for his weekly check-up”, he explains while readjusting his glasses.   
Instinctively I slip my injured hand in the pocket of my cardigan as I hear the word practitioner.   
“Right”, I say, “Of course! Let’s get inside then.”   
“After you.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”, I offer as I watch him take off his forest green jacket in the hallway of the farmhouse.   
He’s tall and slim, towering over me just enough so that I have to tilt my head a bit while talking to him. The rain has speckled his glasses and the little droplets of water reflect the artificial light of the dusty light bulbs. 

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m more of a coffee man but thank you very much for the offer.”  
“I can make you some coffee if you like”, I say, remembering an old metal box filled with coffee powder that sits on the shelf above the stove. Dented and covered in red, chipped paint, printed on is the faded logo of a coffee company that has dissolved long before the war started. 

He raises one hand in a dismissive manner.   
“Please, I don’t want to trouble you”, he replies with a polite smile, which is followed by a strange silence.   
I eye him up and realise that he’s a lot younger than I thought initially, probably not much older than I am but he looks much more mature in his glasses, ironed slacks and clean white shirt and with the well-kept moustache he’s sporting. Suddenly I feel underdressed in my overalls and the colourfully striped woolly sweater, hands still deep in the pockets of my cardigan, with my distaste for coffee and my backcountry accent. He hasn’t so much as given me a glance that would imply he’s looking down on me but still I can’t resist the urge to stare at my muddy and soaked shoes, unable to face him properly. An effect people from Gotoro tend to have on me.

“It’s no trouble”, I reply quietly, making the tips of my feet touch like a little kid would, causing myself to feel even sillier.   
“No, really. Don’t worry about me”, he repeats and after a few moments of silence, “Well, I shall take a good look at your grandfather. Of course, the check-up is confidential but I will tell you everything you must know as his carer when I get out.”  
“Thank you”, is all I can come up with.

I stand in the kitchen a few minutes later, pulling the ancient stove top coffee maker out of the cupboards, certain that it has not been used in many years. While I learned how to make good coffee during my time at the bakery, I’m not familiar with such an old machine but for some reason I can’t shake the need to make this stranger the best cuppa brew he has ever had. An unsolicited urge to prove myself in front of this posh Gotorian doctor. 

“Silly”, I mutter under my breath as I grab the metal box of coffee powder, “This is so silly.”  
It might be stupid but it’s not difficult and it only takes me a minute to figure out how to use this outdated coffee maker. I fill the bottom chamber with water and the top chamber with powder, screw them together and place the whole thing on the hot stove. As I wait for it to brew I lean against the counter and look out through the window. 

Randolph is sitting on the sill, looking inside with his one eye and I make a mental note to buy some cat food when I’m at the shops. He doesn’t like me staring at him and jumps off with one last reproachful glance. Like he’s telling me what I’m telling myself. This is silly.   
The kitchen begins to smell like coffee and I’m closing my eyes for a few moments, pretending to be in the bakery, back home in Zuzu, where I’m not silly, where I’m not injured or lonely, where I’m Eddie, not Edeline and where I’m covered in flour, not dirt.   
“Silly”, I repeat one last time before I open my eyes. 

The check-up takes about half an hour and by the time Dr Jones enters the kitchen, his cup of coffee is sitting on the table, steaming and aromatic, and my injured hand is buried in the depths of my cardigan again. 

“Oh, that’s for me?”, he asks with a smile that makes the corners of his moustache twitch.  
“Yes”, I say, “Please, have a seat! Would you like some sugar or milk with that?”  
“No, but thank you very much”, he replies as he pulls out the wooden chair to have a seat.  
He faces me across the kitchen, crosses his long legs, his left ankle resting on his right knee and at the same time grabs the cup and takes a sip. I hold my breath in anticipation.  
“Ah”, he says after a few seconds, “Now that is great coffee!”  
I give him a small smile, feeling a strange sense of pride.   
“I’d offer you some biscuits with that but I’m afraid we’re all out of… well everything, really. I’m gonna have to go shop for groceries this afternoon.”  
“That’s quite alright. Drinking six cups of coffee a day is a big enough vice, I don’t need to throw candy in the mix”, he chuckles, then takes another sip.  
Despite myself I can’t help but smile at this, leaning against the counter, the remaining heat of the stove warming my cold back. 

“Well then”, Dr Jones continues, “Shall we talk about your grandfather?”  
“Please.”  
“The good news is”, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his long and pointy nose that makes him look a little more youthful somehow, “He’s doing fine and will be alright.”  
“That is very good news”, I reply, as images of a quick return to the city colourfully flash in front of my eyes.   
“Yes. But as one of my professors liked to say: While being optimistic we must always stay realistic. Your grandfather is in his eighties and at this age, something as traumatic as gastrointestinal perforation can limit him very severely.”  
I look at him as he takes another quick sip before he puts the cup back on the table.  
“So he won’t be up and running anytime soon?”, I ask tentatively.  
“I’m afraid not. And I don’t think he will be up and running the way he used to before this incident at all.”  
“Grandpa won’t be able to work on the farm anymore.”

It’s not a question. I don’t think it ever was a question and as I part from my fantasies about reuniting with my home, I think about my conversation with Felix last night, how uncomfortable the cold porcelain of the bathtub was against my bare skin and how comfortable his lie was. Outside of the bathroom and in the grey light of day, I am hit with the truth. I won’t be leaving this place anytime soon and so I swallow hard and nod, forcing a polite smile on my face. 

“It wouldn’t be advisable”, Dr Jones supports my statement and he flashes me a small, almost apologetic smile.   
“Ah well”, I say a little breathlessly, my uninjured hand forming a fist inside of my pocket, “As my mother likes to say: We’ll work with whatever comes our way.”  
His smile gets a bit bigger as he lifts his cup again and drains it, then he gets up from his chair. 

“I need to get going, I have an appointment at the clinic in twenty minutes so here’s a few quick things: I don’t think we need any changes in his medication as of now and he told me he has three meals a day so that is great. Maybe you can get him to get out of bed a little more frequently, if he has the energy that is. Just strolling up and down the hallway a few times a day would already be excellent training.”

He walks up to me as he speaks, the empty cup in his outstretched hand and without thinking I remove my hands from my pockets and grab the dish. Immediately his eyes dart down and to my purple, swollen fingers. His brows furrow and his expression hardens to a stern look.

“You’re hurt”, he says, eyes still glued to my fingers.  
I put my injured hand back into my pocket, holding the cup with my uninjured hand instead.  
“Oh… I was just being clumsy. It’s nothing.”  
“That certainly doesn’t look like it’s nothing, Miss Walsh.”  
“It’s Doyle”, I correct him in an attempt to change the topic, “Grandpa is my mother’s father, not my father’s so my name’s Doyle. But you can call me Edeline, no need to be formal.”  
Finally he looks up from where my purple fingers were, his brows still furrowed, forming a small crease right atop the bridge of his nose.   
“Pardon me, Miss Edeline”, he says and somehow this sounds even more stuffy than being called Miss Doyle, “But this injury looks somewhat severe, if you don’t mind me asking, when did this happen?”  
“Last night”, I shrug, still smiling to convince him but he doesn’t seem content at all.  
“Mhm”, he readjusts his glasses absentmindedly, “I don’t mean to be rude, truly, but as a doctor I am concerned by nature and it would probably be advisable for you to let me have a quick look?”  
“Uh…”, I say dumbfoundedly, “I don’t think that’s necessary…”  
“Does it hurt?”  
“It… well…”  
“Then I do think it necessary.”

He’s stretching out his hand, a look of almost parental expectation on his face that leaves me absolutely dumbfounded but I don’t react until he quietly says “Please”.   
It’s this gentle nudge that makes me remove my hand from my pocket once more and I carefully place it in his. His skin feels warm against mine and I’m painfully aware of the dirt under my fingernails.  
“Pardon”, he mutters as he takes a small step closer, close enough for me to smell his cologne. Dewy and pleasant, it reminds me of pine needles and autumn. I shake my head slightly as he carefully examines my injury.

His long fingers brush along mine and I notice a few freckles on his knuckles. It hurts but not nearly as badly as I anticipated so I manage to suppress a hiss. He notices the tension though and looks up at me through his glasses, that have slipped down to the tip of his nose.  
“What exactly happened?”, he asks, letting go of my hand.  
“An iron door happened”, I sigh, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.  
He nods and readjusts his glasses.  
“Well, they are far too swollen for me to make a proper diagnosis but your fingers might be broken or fractured. I’d have to take you to the clinic so I can make an X-ray, then we’d know for sure.”  
“Oh, is that strictly necessary?”, I ask, panic rising inside of me with the speed of a tsunami.   
“Well, Miss Edeline, if the fingers are broken and left untreated they might not heal and your pain will worsen”, he explains.  
“Right…”, a deep breath before I continue, “But see, I don’t exactly have the money for an X-ray so I don’t think that’s an option…”

Ferngill is a war bruised country, nobody in the working class has insurance and prices for medical treatments are through the roof. We mostly self-diagnose and self-medicate should need be. I haven’t been to a doctor’s office in years and now that I don’t have a job there is no way I could afford treatment of any kind.   
Dr Jones stares at me with furrowed brows.  
“You said you have to go to town to shop for groceries, right?”  
“Yeh”, I confusedly reply.  
“Let me take you to town so I can at least tape your fingers to stabilise them. It’ll take away some of the pain also.”  
I am about to shake my head in disagreement when he throws me a strange look, stern and soft at the same time and he says: “Free of charge of course. Please, I don’t think I’d sleep well tonight knowing you’re hurt and I have done nothing to help.”  
“Thank you.”


End file.
